


Winter Afternoon

by fengirl88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, challenge: love_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-23
Updated: 2012-03-23
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't know then how indelible that impression would be; that he wouldn't be able to delete John Watson from his hard drive even if he wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [second_skin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/gifts).



> Sequel to [Signs For The Distant And Disconsolate Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/166797), and written as a fill for the square "Unforgettable" on my love_bingo card.
> 
> this one is a late birthday present for blooms84; I promised you a happy ending!
> 
> thanks to kalypso_v and kate_lear for beta wisdom and encouragement.

Sherlock is lying curled up on the sofa, listening to the same aria for the sixth time this afternoon. The winter sun is low in the sky; it'll be dark before John gets back. If he _is_ coming back today. 

The volume's lower than he likes it, but after the third time Mrs Hudson had come up to ask if he was all right and he can't stand her fussing over him. 

He checks his phone again. Nothing.

Nothing from Lestrade since they closed the case on the greenhouse murder last week. And nothing from John.

He's not even sure why he thought there might be, after the row. John had made it abundantly clear when he left that he couldn't bear to be in the same space as Sherlock a minute longer. No doubt bloody Clara must be telling him he ought to stay away, ought to move out. John might be thinking that anyway, now he knows how Sherlock feels about him.

He can hear John now, that night at Angelo's, saying _Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way_ , and himself saying _I know it's fine_.

Fine, unless the one you want doesn't want you back. Unless you fall in love with someone who thinks of you as a friend, and isn't interested in anything else. Unless you make the mistake of showing your feelings and he laughs at you.

_Here, nothing is pure_ , Ariadne sings. _Everything is confused_.

He's so full of rage and self-loathing he doesn't know where to turn. He'd like to break something, smash something up, maybe himself... 

But if John _is_ coming back Sherlock doesn't want to make him angry. And he _would_ be angry if Sherlock harmed himself. So he tamps down the rage and it glows in his chest, a hot tight knot of misery and pain.

 

He doesn't know why it happened, doesn't want to know. Self-analysis is boring and pointless anyway. There was the moment of seeing this man he didn't yet know, seeing him and reading everything about him, from the tan lines on his wrists, the way he held himself, the limp, the look in his eyes. As if time stood still and there was nothing but this flood of data pushing into his mind. He didn't know then how indelible that impression would be; that he wouldn't be able to delete John Watson from his hard drive even if he wanted to.

There was the pleasure of showing off, of flirting. The pleasure of this man's admiration for his brilliance, like the hit of a drug coursing through his veins, bright and pure. He wanted more of it, much more. Never cared about anyone's good opinion before, not since childhood anyway. Never looked to anyone to see what they thought of him; they'd usually leave him in no doubt anyway. _Freak. Weirdo. Piss off!_

But this man... This man gives him back to himself, beautiful and whole, precious and amazing, in a way no-one ever has before. And he craves that, his whole body and mind _aches_ for it, stronger than any drug craving he can remember.

The moment of realizing what John had done for him, realizing _John_ was the shooter – like suddenly recognizing someone you'd thought was a stranger and knowing you'd found the person you were looking for, not even knowing you _were_ looking. Talking to Lestrade about the killer's strong moral principle and nerves of steel, the words dying on his lips at the sight of quiet, unassuming John Watson licking his lips and blinking in the flashing blue light.

Still he hadn't known _what_ this was – only that the exhilaration of the discovery was intoxicating. Giddy with pleasure, he'd carried off his own private assassin for dim sum in Baker Street, ravenous as if he hadn't eaten for days. (He hadn't.)

He hasn't eaten since John went away. Hasn't wanted to. He tried, in a fit of duty last night, but his throat closed up and he couldn't swallow. Never knew before what people meant about food turning to ashes in your mouth.

Ariadne sings about the wondrous silent god, Hermes, who drives all souls before him, like frightened birds or leaves in a wind: _darkness will come over my eyes, and your hand will be on my heart_.

Stupid and self-indulgent, John would say, no doubt, to be lying here listening to a woman sing about her longing to be freed from the burden of this life, calling on death: _give me over to myself_.

John was the one who gave him back to himself. But John's not here. Sherlock's lost him now, and nothing makes sense any more. He feels scattered, in pieces, unable to gather himself up again. What's the point, anyway?

That moment in the hall, coming back from a case, laughing at something he can't even remember now, looking down at John and John looking up at him. Feeling desire slam through him so hard he nearly staggered with it. Wanting to grab John and kiss him till he couldn't breathe, to shove him against the wall, push his thigh between John's legs and rut against him, wanting to pull his clothes off, wanting to be naked in bed with him right there and then. Feeling all that written all over his face. And John standing there still laughing. The shame of it bleached through him even as he turned away to hide his face from John's mockery.

_Maybe he wasn't mocking you_ , says a voice in his head. _Maybe he didn't know._

Sherlock grimaces in self-disgust. It's pathetic, the way that people try to fool themselves about these things.

He'd said... _something_ to John. He doesn't remember what it was now, only that he felt he was dying inside and lashed out, trying to push this man away from him, to regain control of his emotions. Not realizing that it was too late for that. That John was already so deeply embedded in his mind that Sherlock couldn't tear him out of it.

And then John had left, saying something about Aldeburgh and Clara and a concert in September, which didn't make sense. Sherlock couldn't take it in properly, too much _noise_ in his head from the pain of John going away, John lost to him. 

He imagines John and Clara walking on the beach at Aldeburgh in the February wind, the shifting crunch of shingle under their feet. Clara saying _I told you so_ and _You're better off out of that one_ , and John –

No, he can't imagine what John's saying. He's afraid to. It hurts too much.

The aria's ending. He reaches for the remote to stop Zerbinetta and her troupe from interrupting, ruining the mood with their ridiculous antics. He doesn't want to hear Zerbinetta's mocking laughter, hear her telling Ariadne to pull herself together and stop being an idiot.

It's quiet in the room now; too quiet. A lull in the traffic, not quite time for rush-hour yet. If John were here, it would be pleasant to light the fire.

He hasn't slept since John went away, either, and the sense of exhaustion is so strong he can't fight it any more. He closes his eyes and feels the heaviness pulling him down into sleep.

 

It's dark outside when he opens his eyes, but the table lamp's on, which he's sure it wasn't before. There's a mug of tea, still steaming, on the coffee-table, and next to it an envelope with his name on it.

He looks from the mug to the envelope and back again, trying to read the signs. The mug of tea says that John's back (John's _home_ ), that life can go on again. But the sight of the envelope starts a cold knot of fear inside him, turning and twisting.

John comes back in from the kitchen. He looks tense, as if there's something he's nerving himself to say, or to do. _Please don't_ , Sherlock wants to say. _Please stay. I won't ask for anything. I just want more time with you._

But he can't say that. Can't speak at all. He looks at John, waiting for the sentence to fall.

“You're awake, then,” John says, sounding almost like himself but not quite.

Sherlock nods.

“Tea there,” John says.

Taking refuge in the obvious. Whatever this is, it must be _really_ bad. 

Sherlock picks up the mug and drinks. Wanting to please John, to do the right thing. If there is a right thing left to do. He's not sure there is.

“Wrote you a letter,” John says, not looking at him.

“Do I have to read it?” Sherlock says agitatedly.

John flinches as if he's been struck. _Wrong again_.

“I'd like you to,” he says, still not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock opens his mouth to say _Please don't make me do this, I can't_ , but the words won't come. He picks up the envelope and opens the letter. Notices automatically the quality of the bed and breakfast's notepaper (mid-range, ill-advised design), the cheap gel pen ink, the myriad small signs of John's personality in the writing. The words on the page.

_Dearest Sherlock_ –

That can't be right. He looks again, thinking he must have misread it, but it's still there. He can't take in what the letter's saying, but words and phrases leap out off the page at him, _sorry_ and _I didn't know_ and _love_.

The words are swimming before his eyes; he can't see properly any more. He looks from the letter to John, and John finally looks back again. John's face is blurred too, but it looks kind and familiar, tentative and strange. And whatever he sees in Sherlock's face makes him kneel on the sofa and put his arms around Sherlock.

Sherlock clings to John as if he'll never let go. He finds he can't stop shaking, which is ridiculous, but John doesn't seem to mind.

“Did you read it?” John asks, his voice unsteady.

Sherlock shakes his head. It's not enough; there need to be _words_. 

“Couldn't,” he manages. “Sorry.”

John kisses him, very gently, and says “I'll read it to you later.” He kisses Sherlock again, not so gently this time, and hugs him tighter.

“Thought you weren't coming back,” Sherlock says, when they finally come up for air.

“That's because you're an idiot,” John says affectionately. “Don't worry, most people are.”

“Shut up and come to bed,” Sherlock says, still not quite sure if he can get away with this.

But apparently he can.

**Author's Note:**

> What Sherlock's listening to: the aria "Es gibt ein Reich" from Richard Strauss's _Ariadne auf Naxos_ ; version with subtitles [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_H9LTixHHug).


End file.
